


Child of Hope

by Le_Creationist



Series: Eryn Lasgalen [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Creationist/pseuds/Le_Creationist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Follows 'In Starlight and in Shadow']</p><p>After a decade after the fall of Sauron and the end of the War of the Ring, the elves of the Woodland realm make a rare appearance at the Midsummer Festival in Laketown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the events of 'The Necklace of Lasgalen' and more importantly 'In Starlight and in Shadow.' It will definitely not make sense as a standalone. For anyone who's read those stories, welcome back! This isn't too plot-heavy and is more about the fluff. ^_^ Hope you enjoy!

The noises of the caravan were distinct as it made its way down the long road. They were humble folk of the Rhovanion plain, many on foot, some on horseback and the rest in the small wagons they brought with them. Their chatter was simple and full of cheer, for they heeded the missive spread throughout the land—the King of Dale and Esgaroth was to host a great feast in celebration of Midsummer.

Ingrid eagerly anticipated her family’s journey to the Long Lake. The warmth of the sun on her skin cheered her greatly as their caravan slowly proceeded. Unlike the other children in their party, Ingrid had visited Esgaroth before with her father. He was a man who believed in learning though he was but a simple merchant. He wanted his children to learn customs and languages of all who graced the bustling port city, all of which the little girl observed with gusto.

Ingrid’s brother Brandir cared less for learning of culture and refinement, instead fancying himself a true knight of the Black Arrow. He wielded a small wooden sword that their father made, claiming he'd slay any goblin who dared cross them. Her brother was a baby when the Dark Lord perished and his thralls were dispelled from their strongholds. Ingrid recalled the Shadows of those times; the cold winters of her childhood in Dale. She remembered the sacking of their homeland and the siege of the Lonely Mountain. She could not forget the fierce Dwarves of Erebor and Men of the Black Arrow, nor the deadly beauty of the Elven host from Mirkwood. Most children who survived had taken refuge within Erebor, as she did with her mother and brother. Her father fought, giving up his trade, and survived. 

As their party travelled on, Ingrid thought no more on the darkness lest it rob her of all cheer.  They ate modestly by firelight when they stopped to make camp off the main road. Ingrid and Brandir listened raptly to their mother's bedtime stories, huddled together beneath a blanket in the back of their wagon. Mama always told them best. Her words floated through the air and took shape, so vivid were the tales she wove. Ingrid knew her mama was a learned lady from a House of higher station than her father’s. Papa too was fond of the lore her mama knew by heart. Ingrid had a particular favorite, one that would always exasperate her brother into sullenness. Even so, when mama spoke in earnest, Bran soon came 'round and was just as entranced as his sister.

"Fair and fierce are the Grey-elves, and their Silvan and Nandorin kin. Long have they lived in the forests of the north, keepers of the woodland and masters of the eaves. Less wise and more dangerous were they who dwelt in what was once called Mirkwood." Bran's eyelids drooped but Ingrid nestled into her mother's arms and listened. "The gloaming of Dol Guldur spread so far o'er the eaves of the north that the elves retreated. Their king led them in secret to a realm no man dared venture in those days. This king--"

"Thranduil!" Ingrid piped up. Bran grumbled as he dozed but she paid him no mind. Mama smiled down fondly and continued. "Now the wood-elves are a secretive people. Not much is known of the goings-on in their realm before the Battle under Trees. However, when all hope seemed lost in the Kingdom of Dale and Sauron's forces drew near, an army of Elves came to aid us."

Now Ingrid closed her eyes, but it was to better imagine the scene rather than to sleep like her brother.

"The elves arrived with the dawn to the rallying cries of King Dáin and King Brand and their troops. To their astonishment, it was not King Thranduil who led them. The Elvenking remained in Mirkwood to hold off the legions of Gundabad. Instead, it was the Queen! Queen Silivren she is called, for no blade shined more brightly than the one she wielded in battle."

"Do you think she was afraid?" Ingrid whispered. She did not like to interrupt, but the Elven warrior queen seemed to defy all notions of what a noble lady should be. Ingrid had only seen the highborn ladies of Dale once when she went with her father to court. She couldn't picture any of those ladies taking up arms, much less leading a host into war.

"She may well have been." Mama sighed deeply. She gently smoothed her daughter's hair. Ingrid's eyes were still closed, and she heard the wind outside as the canvas covered rooftop flapped softly. Finally, the young girl succumbed to sleep. She dreamed of the Elven queen’s courage. She dreamed of meeting her at the midsummer festival on the shore of the Long Lake, where she and her family would soon be.

* * *

The Wood-elves of the Eryn Lasgalen were a merry people despite their lesser numbers. Many of them made their homes beneath the trees rather than the caverns, near the gentle brooks and in the clearings of the forests. Queen Tauriel Silivren no longer took up arms. Her bow and blade stirred up memories of deeply troubled times so they remained within Thranduil’s now-empty Halls.

Tauriel often walked the paths of the forest with their child Amdíriel while her husband watched over them. Even after the defeat of Mordor, however safe their lands now were, Thranduil carried always his blade in its belted sheath. There was no need for weapons in the peace among the Greenleaves yet the lives of his wife and daughter were worth far more than the minor inconvenience.

The Sindar and Silvan monarchs made a regal pair as they strolled arm in arm but this was of no import to the elfling princess. She only delighted in the abundant hydrangea dipped in pastel blues and lavenders. The wildflowers were in the height of their season, the blooms vibrantly colored their lands and the hues never ceased to please an elfling as precocious as their daughter. The child skipped ahead in front of her parents, who strolled together and spoke in low tones more often than not, though their glances and fleeting touches revealed a deeper communication between them.

“Nana, look!” Amdíriel cried. A young rabbit had leaped out from the foliage and scampered up toward them. The elleth bent down to stroke its soft pelt and it nuzzled her little palm in return. Just as quickly as it came, it dashed away back into the shrubbery, jostling the plants along the way.

The princess frowned with disappointment until Thranduil scooped her up into his arms. She was instantly distracted by the view from her father’s great height. None could deny his daughter’s beauty. The king named her Caranor, as the fire of her spirit and wit marked her as her mother’s daughter. Any crossness was gone from her heart-shaped face, she gazed at him with eyes that so resembled his and kissed his cheek. She patted at his hair and crown, to which Thranduil said, “When you are older, you shall have one for your own.”

“Hannon le, ada.” She replied sweetly. The power of speech was one quickly mastered by elven children, the princess was no exception. Tauriel smiled at the sight. How could she not be charmed by the way Thranduil carried their child along the path, speaking to her patiently as if she were an elleth grown and telling her fables whose finer points were lost? The quality of his deep voice was most beloved by Amdíriel, who was always soothed by the sound.

The elves then came to the end of the forest where the river’s mouth widened and slowed its frenetic pace. The royal family sometimes passed those sweltering afternoons near the water, but this was no ordinary foray. The elves of Eryn Lasgalen accompanied their lord and lady, bearing the standard of the House of Oropher. They were bound for Esgaroth at the invitation of King Bard to celebrate the festival of Loende, as they called midsummer in Sindarin. The long, slender boats hewn from the beech trees were made ready to sail. The queen halted the procession and bade the rowers to tarry just a little.

“Let us rest here for but a moment, Thranduil. The water is so enticing.” The queen proclaimed. She hardly awaited his assent as Amdíriel twisted in his grasp and waved at her naneth. Thranduil placed her in her mother’s arms and Tauriel graced him with a dazzling smile.

Before he knew it, Tauriel was knee deep in the cool water with Amdíriel settled at her hip. She leaned down so the little girl could splash her hand about, laughing as Amdíriel discovered she could drench her nana by flicking the water back toward them. Thranduil stood further back on the shore, observing them fondly, yet maintaining conscientious distance from the action.

The queen’s dress was a ruin a mere moment later yet the joy that lit her face was so captivating that none would dare say her behavior was unseemly. The Wood-elves were after all closer to nature than their long-gone wiser kindred. They lived simply now, and begrudged their leaders naught that made them happy.

At sunset the Elves set sail. The evening drew nigh, making the Forest River a glittering obsidian path. Tauriel and Amdíriel gazed at the sky to name all the constellations they recognized as the queen taught her daughter ones she had yet to learn. Thranduil settled into his great seat, eyes closed, listening contentedly to his wife’s soft voice as she spoke, and then the innocence of Amdíriel Caranor’s answers. Before long, the princess crawled onto his lap and wrapped herself in the wide sleeve of his cloak. Tauriel took her place beside her husband. She kissed the crown of her daughter’s head, then her husband’s cheek. He took her hand in his, tenderly stroking his thumb over her knuckles.

“Ada, can you name all of the stars in the Valacirca?” Caranor’s question was punctuated by a yawn.

“Sleep now, child.” The king murmured. “We shan’t reach our journey’s end for some time still, and we must not tarry for many await us there.”

* * *

Ingrid nervously smoothed the skirts of her dress—the finest one in her possession. Her mama plaited her hair so that it hung over her shoulder, but somehow Ingrid could not quell the fear that she was inadequately adorned for the occasion. Citizens of the northern kingdoms gathered at the lake shore to greet the fair-folk, slated to arrive within the hour.

Bran’s fidgeting did not help ease her nerves either. When made to stand still for too long, her brother grew restless and unhappy. Her parents were side by side, both gazing into the distance. Perhaps they were as nervous as Ingrid. Though her mama knew much of the Elves, Ingrid supposed it had been several years since she’d last been in their presence.

King Bard and the northern lords stood proudly before their people, that they may be the first to greet King Thranduil and Queen Tauriel. Ingrid could not see their faces, as their backs were turned toward them, but she imagined their expressions. There was goodwill between their peoples; she knew the festival would be a joyous one. Despite this, Ingrid gasped when the Elves emerged from the forest at last. She watched the figures at the forefront like a hawk.

Tallest of the three must have been Thranduil, the Elf-king and Lord of the Wood of Greenleaves. Fair indeed was he, and he smiled upon the King of Dale as though he was an old friend. The queen beside him proved as beautiful as the legends suggested. Though she donned no armor, her gown and mantle shimmered as though it were wrought from the finest silver. A circlet encrusted with starlit gems held her auburn hair in place, though some strands moved with the gentle breeze. Ingrid could only squeeze her mama’s hand in consternation. She could hardly believe her eyes.

After the exchange of greetings, King Thranduil and Queen Tauriel parted, and a girl stepped forth between them. Her posture was elegant, her manner self-assured for her seemingly young age. Ingrid saw immediately in the girl’s bearing hints of her parentage. Even Bran, who was until now disinterested in the arrivals, stared at the young elf’s radiance. She wore garments of forest green which set off her rose gold hair and a circlet atop her head that resembled the queen’s.

“Your Majesty, may we present our daughter,” The elf-king said in the common tongue, so that all who gathered there might hear. “Amdíriel Caranor.”

At such closeness, Ingrid saw that she was in fact taller than the princess. She wondered at the elf’s true age, for though she looked young, Ingrid knew in truth the princess’s years may even exceed hers. So it was with all the fair-folk, according to her mama.

Esgaroth spared no expense for the festivities. Food was bountiful and the sight and smells of so many mouth-watering repasts ensured none went hungry. The nobility and commoners alike danced and leaped over the bonfire, the flames rising well into the night. Bran ate far too much of the sweet pies and Mama took him to their tent so he could be put to bed. Ingrid knew her papa was well into his cups and she desired to stay a little longer amid the merriment.

The Elves began to sing along the shore when the ruckus the men made died down. Ingrid sat on the sand, uncaring of the state of her dress, and watched the fair-folk cast their gazes skyward. She knew not what they sang of as it was all in elvish. From what few words she recognized, she supposed it was an ode to the Valar.

“Do you like it?”

Ingrid tore her attention from the song to see who addressed her. She nearly leapt to her feet when she realized who it was. The princess smiled and shook her head, lowering herself to sit beside Ingrid, much to her disbelief. Ingrid crossed her legs beneath her skirt and folded her hands primly in her lap.

“I…I do like it.” Ingrid finally responded but chastised herself for speaking so plainly to this elven royal. When the princess said nothing more, Ingrid dared risk a sidelong glance.

“It is a song that praises Yavanna Kementári; the queen of seasons and all that is green in the world.” Amdíriel seemed just as enraptured by the harmonies as Ingrid was. The two of them sat in silence except for the music. The evening breeze graced the shore. A balm for the heated festival-goers, it quietened them and all soon ceased their activity to hearken to the elven singers.

There were tears in Ingrid’s eyes when the song came to an end. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, unwilling to seem foolish before the princess. Such music must be commonplace to her, as these were her kin with whom she dwelled all her life.

“Do not let your heart be sad, mellon.” said Amdíriel. “This day has brought greater friendship between our people. We shall return to you again.”

And when midsummer passed, the Elves returned to their domain and bade all from Dale and Esgaroth a warm farewell. Ingrid left with her family, the sound of the elvish song rooted in her heart.


End file.
